


What Do I Do Now?

by Greenlips24



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-03 18:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10972809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenlips24/pseuds/Greenlips24
Summary: When Athos's life is suddenly turned upside down, he finds help in an unexpected quarter.  Meanwhile, the race is on to stop an old enemy, bent on vengeance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Cait12

_Adversity is the touchstone of friendship – French Proverb_

**CHAPTER ONE**

**The Garrison:**

It was getting late in the day, and the courtyard was awash with bright sunshine, affording very little shade to the groups of sparring Musketeers. Aramis and Porthos had sought what little comfort they could following their own sparring session, and were now slumped at their usual table, having removed their jackets and poured ale. The clash of swords opposite them indicated that their brothers were still engaged in their swordplay, and they settled in to watch.

Time and again, they watched as Athos parried easily, drawing back as d’Artagnan succumbed to what, in real circumstances, would be a lethal blow. Both men were soaked in perspiration from the heat of the sun and d’Artagnan’s body language now screamed frustration at every failure to best the older man. 

d’Artagnan knew what Athos was doing. Each time he was bettered by his mentor, it was accompanied by a whispered insult. He knew why he was doing it. It was working. He was getting really wound up.

Head over heart, that was the lesson; again and again.

It was supposed to make him fight in a more logical way, but it was merely making him angry. At Athos; at himself.

It was hot, and he was tired. He had had enough. Parrying once, twice and then exasperated by another whispered insult, he snapped. 

They locked blades once more, and d’Artagnan anchored his feet and threw his body forward and shoved Athos forcefully backwards.

Athos was thrown off balance and slammed into the wooden pillar supporting the overhead balcony. d’Artagnan made a show of holding both hands up, and let his sword and dagger fall to the ground before turning and walking angrily out through the archway. 

Aramis and Porthos had been enjoying the show, but now both looked at each other in concern. They rose and walked over to Athos to see what it was he had finally whispered that had so angered their younger brother.

“What was that about?” asked Aramis, turning to face Athos.

His question hung in the air; there was no reply.

Something was wrong.

Athos was standing very still with a look of confusion on his face, both hands held up in supplication. Slowly his hand opened and his sword dropped to the ground. Aramis looked at Porthos, and both took a step forward.

“Athos?”

Athos met Aramis’s eyes and, as a look of puzzlement passed over his face, a trickle of blood spilled over his lips.

Porthos went to grab him.

“No!” cried Aramis, “Don’t touch him!”

Athos’s lips were moving, but no sound came.

Aramis slid his hand behind Athos’s back and quickly pulled it back gasping.

Athos had been impaled on a very large, very ugly nail protruding from the wooden pillar.

**oOo**

“Don’t move, Athos,” Aramis cried, placing his hand gently on his brother’s chest.

He had to think. If they pulled him forward off the nail, he would probably bleed profusely. At the moment the nail, large as it was, was acting as a plug, the blood already congealing around it. Aramis would have to put his hand between Athos and the post and apply pressure to the wound before they could walk him forward. They would then have to keep the pressure on once he was free or he would lose a lot of blood. They had to move soon though, Athos was standing perfectly still with his head bowed, his breath hissing through his teeth, but he had started to shake. He was going into shock.

Aramis moved into Athos’s line of vision and explained that he had been impaled through his left shoulder; that Porthos has gone to get bandages, and he then quickly told him what they were going to do. 

Athos gave the slightest of nods in agreement. Porthos came running back with bandages, and Aramis quickly made them into a pad. After a quick discussion, Porthos bent over and took Athos’s right wrist.

“On the count of three Porthos,” said Aramis.

1 ... 2 ... 3! 

Porthos grabbed the front of his doublet, and gently but firmly, pulled Athos towards him. At the same time, Aramis thrust the wad of bandages over the wound. Athos made an awful sound that caught Aramis’s breath. Porthos stepped back, pulling Athos with him. He ducked under his arm and stood up in one motion; Athos draped over his shoulder.

Aramis kept the wad pressed firmly on the wound and they both turned and hurried toward the Infirmary.

To his credit, Athos did not lose consciousness.

Once inside, Porthos gently bent and set him in a chair. Aramis did not want him lying down. He stood behind him still applying pressure to the wound.

Porthos brought a glass of wine and held it to Athos’s lips. He drank gratefully, and held on to the empty cup tightly. Aramis was relieved so see that the blood on his lips was due to him biting his tongue. Porthos then pulled up a chair and sat in front of him. Athos was very pale, his eyes tightly shut. Adrenaline was flowing through his veins and his foot was tapping on the floor, as he swayed forward and back trying to gain some control over his breathing. 

Porthos leaned forward and took his friend’s face in his large hands. The kindness was too much. His concentration broken, Athos rested his head against Porthos’s shoulder and quietly fainted.

“S’alright,” Porthos whispered, holding the back of his neck. He shot a look up at Aramis, catching the worried look on his face as the marksman fought to stop the blood.

At that moment, d’Artagnan burst into the room, just as Athos was stirring. He knew what had happened, someone had told him and he had seen the post outside.

“S’alright,” Porthos said again, but this time to d’Artagnan, who crashed down onto a chair behind Aramis.

“I can’t stitch this,” said Aramis in exasperation, several minutes later,

“The wound is not clean, I need to pack it.”

“And then repack it every day” he continued. “Only when it’s clean, can I stitch it.”

“He ain’t gonna like it,” said Porthos.

d’Artagnan stood up and quietly walked away, unable to look any further.

To be continued ...


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

Treville was angry. 

****

He was sitting at his desk, his fingers drumming hard on the wooden surface.

****

When he had found out his best swordsman was currently sitting in the infirmary with a gaping hole in his shoulder, he had demanded the presence of the man currently standing before him.

****

Aramis stood nervously holding his hat, unsure what to tell his Captain, as the prognosis was difficult to predict at the present time. But answers were needed and so d’Artagnan had also been summoned.

****

Now, Treville was looking at Aramis.

****

“What damage?” asked Treville curtly, when he had been fully apprised of the situation.

****

“It’s a very deep wound. The muscle is badly torn; there is probable ligament damage. If he is unlucky, nerve damage.”

****

“Will he lose the arm?” Treville asked tersely.

****

“No.” Aramis said firmly, conscious that d’Artagnan was standing beside him, looking distraught.

****

After they had been dismissed, d’Artagnan made his way to the infirmary to sit with Athos, taking a bottle of wine with him. Athos was still sitting in the same chair. He was very quiet, riding the pain that was washing over him. After a long silence, he shifted uncomfortably.

****

“It seems we both pushed each other a little too hard,” he whispered, trusting d’Artagnan saw the irony in his statement. 

****

“I sort only to focus you; I realise I went too far, and I apologise,” he said simply. 

****

But it meant the world to d’Artagnan to hear those words. He handed the wine over and watched as Athos demolished a third of it in one long swallow, before passing it back.

****

“We are all exhausted, d’Artagnan,” Athos continued softly, trying to find a comfortable position.

****

They had just finished the wine when Aramis joined them.

****

“Can’t you sew it now?” Athos asked, sitting astride the chair now, resting his arms on the back. 

****

“Not yet, mon cher.”

****

**oOo**

****

Three days later, the wound had been stitched and his arm was tightly strapped diagonally across his chest. Athos sought out a sparring partner, but if he thought he could pick up where he left off, he was sorely disappointed.

****

“My balance is all over the place!” he said after one more unsuccessful bout. He tossed his sword away, letting it lie in the dirt. He was coming to the conclusion that life may never be the same again for him. He was acutely aware of his fellow comrades, even Serge, giving sympathetic looks as they watched him. It broke his brother’s hearts to see him so angry and distant. Athos was a true perfectionist. He had practised intensely every day to maintain his skill with both hands, a feat not realised by many. His reputation was immense, Treville maintaining he was the best soldier in his Regiment. Maybe because he was held in such high esteem, even if he did not always accept the plaudits, he was becoming more frustrated by the day. If he could not use both hands, he thought, how could he maintain the one thing that meant so much to him. 

****

d’Artagnan could not watch. He sat with this head down, tracing a pattern on the table with his finger. All around, the Garrison was bustling with activity. Athos sat in the centre of it all, untouched by it, yet acutely aware he was the centre of attention.

****

“It has only been four days Athos, I only stitched you up yesterday! Give it time,” said Aramis. 

****

Athos rounded on him, standing suddenly and pulling off his glove with his teeth, before throwing it angrily on the table.

****

“I am useless,” he hissed, glowering at Aramis.

****

“How can I defend my King and my country when I cannot feel my sword, nor hold a pistol?!”

****

He turned and walked away, leaving his sword where he had thrown it once more. Aramis was aghast; it was the first time Athos had admitted that he had little or no feeling in his shoulder, forearm and hand. They had no answers, and were lost for comforting words.

****

Aramis reached across and picked up the discarded glove.

****

“I will see if I am capable of brushing my horse!” Athos shouted over his shoulder as he strode away.

****

Above them, Treville watched quietly from his balcony.

****

In the stable, as he stood stroking his black stallion’s mane, Athos lowered his forehead to the horse’s large neck and they both stood, perfectly still.

****

_“What do I do now...?”_ he whispered.

****

**oOo**

****

Later, he pulled himself up onto the large black stallion. Not the most graceful mount he had ever made, he thought, grateful that he was alone. Grunting against the pain and wave of nausea that hit him, he reached forward in the saddle and took the reins in his right hand. His left arm was strapped across his body still, and it felt ungainly. 

****

“Time to go,” he said sadly and he gently kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and walked him quietly out of the stable into the night.

****

When he didn’t show up for the evening meal, they looked for him.

****

“He’s gone,” Porthos said, emerging from the stables after finding the empty stall, and walking across to them.

****

“He needed to get away,” said Treville from above them.

****

They all turned and looked up at him in confusion.

****

“Away from us?” d’Artagnan ventured, looking into the faces of his two friends.

****

“I have given Athos a leave of absence. He’s no use in that state,“ Treville replied.

****

“Did you tell ‘im that?” Porthos called up to him angrily.

****

Treville didn’t answer. He turned and went into his office and firmly closed the door.

****

“Where has he gone?” whispered Aramis to himself.

****

“We should have stopped him!” d’Artagnan cried.

****

“How did we know he was goin’ to steal out in the middle of the night!” Porthos snarled.

****

To be continued ...

****


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

_Forty leagues away:_

A cloaked figure stood over a neglected grave in the small cemetery.

“You should not have died, Nephew,” he whispered, pulling his cloak around him. As he moved away, the name on the headstone was clearly visible: _Edmond Renard._

Henri Renard was a bitter man. His brother, the Baron, had given up after his son’s death. He had sold his lands and moved away. As brothers, they were never close but he had made attempts to find him, not through any concern for him particularly; mainly to extract his inheritance. Now that Edmond was gone, he was his brother’s only beneficiary, should he die. Unfortunately, he had no idea where his brother had fled. After over a year of trying to find him, he gave up, resorting to viciously robbing his way across the country. Thereby he found his true vocation. Becoming more bitter at his misfortune, he was finally captured and imprisoned. Luckily only for robbery, not for the countless murders he had committed, which would have afforded him a death sentence.

One man occupied his thoughts whilst he was in that place, surviving on his wits and his brutality against any fellow inmate who dared to challenge him. He held one man responsible. If his brother and nephew had succeeded, there would have been plenty of property and money to see out his life. He was not a sentimental man. Had he lived, he knew Edmond could have been easily manipulated were his brother to die. Thus, either way, he could have taken control of both the lands and property in that village and become a rich man. That was not to be. He was friendless and practically penniless, and he would have his vengeance. He was some twelve days away from his destination, and intended victim:

Pinon, and the Comte de la Fere.

**oOo**

It was much more difficult to ride than he had imagined. Even at walking pace, he felt every footfall that the horse made. Aramis had only stitched his wound the previous morning, and he had not slept well. Although he was heavily bandaged, the pain still radiated through the whole of his upper back.

At first, he had baulked at Treville’s offer of leave. In the end, the Captain had given him little choice in the matter. After the latest episode in the yard, he had looked at his sword lying at his feet and realised he was no use to himself or the Regiment. He did not tell his Captain that in all probability he may not return. He felt disconnected. He could not bear the sympathetic faces, the words of comfort that only served to send him further into desolation. He had a great capacity for melancholia, he knew, which he often used unwisely. He could not bear to look at d’Artagnan. Not that he bore him any ill feelings, but he realised the boy could not look at _him._

That evening, he sat in the first tavern he came to, with his hat pulled over his eyes, defying any contact. He did not take accommodation there, preferring to roll out his bed under the August skies. He needed to adjust to his new life outside the Garrison and adjust to his body, which felt strange and unbalanced. He had always had control over his muscles and his balance, but that had changed now. 

__

By the third day, he realised he had a fever. He would have to seek help.

__

**oOo**

__

Meanwhile, whenever he was off duty, d’Artagnan rode out asking questions, following leads, all for nought. He would leave hopeful, and return with shoulders slumped. The burden of guilt he carried grew heavier every day. He just needed to know that Athos was alive and well.

__

**oOo**

__

Strangely enough, it was his horse that took him that way. He had no idea where he was going, only that he was not well. With the late August sun shining down on him, he allowed the horse its head. Later, he rode into the village. Looking up, he realised where he was. With no direction from him, his horse walked up to a small group of people standing in front of a small barn, and stopped.

__

“Well,” said Bertrand, reaching for the reins of the horse, “we had to tie you up and carry you here last time, M. Athos. Now you come of your own volition. What brings you to Pinon?”

__

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I do not come to take back your land. It is yours, paid for with your blood,” he said as he slowly slipped from the saddle. They caught him before he hit the ground.

__

“He has a fever,” said Jeanne, Bertrand’s daughter, feeling the heat radiating from his body.

__

More villagers were gathering now, aware that their Liege Lord had returned once more. They were curious, and fearful as to why. 

__

Over by the barn, the boy watched quietly.

__

They carried him into the nearest cottage, recently vacated due to the passing of its elderly owner.

__

“She won’t mind him lying here,” said Jeanne, as they lowered him onto the bed. “She never forgot what he did for us. She died owning this cottage and the land it stands on.”

__

After that, Athos knew very little. He was aware of movement around him. Of gently being given water, and the cooling sensation of cold cloths being applied to his face and his body. He knew he was raving, but had no strength to hold his tongue. 

__

He dreamed ...

__

_He could not move. Shackled, he was standing against a wall, facing a firing squad, waiting;_

__

_Suddenly he was standing in front of a wooden post. Someone was saying “Don’t move!”, but he couldn’t anyway._

__

_The soft fragrance of jasmine followed him through his dreams._

__

_There were his brothers; Thomas; a field of blue forget-me-nots._

__

Jeanne watched him tossing and turning, and wondered what dark world he inhabited. She had no comprehension; only knowing he was sick and needed help.

__

Three days after he arrived, he opened his eyes to find himself in a small room, the sunlight coming through the window, casting shadows on the wall. He turned his head, and saw Jeanne, sitting beside him, watching him.

__

“That was quite an entrance, My Lord,” she said. 

__

He had told them before that they were on an equal footing, but she knew she would have trouble calling him anything else. He was quite an imposing figure, and from her experience , he could certainly be intimidating. Today though, she saw him in a different light; he was sick and vulnerable. There was no anger in him this time, only sadness. 

__

“Better than my last entrance,” he whispered, attempting to sit up.

__

“Quieter perhaps.” She laughed.

__

“I am sorry to be a burden,” he said as he fell back defeated onto the pillow.

__

“We have our share of accidents and sickness. We have our own ways of dealing with them, and all we need here to make our medicines,” she said. “We were able to break your fever fairly quickly,” she continued. “Though, I doubt you remember.”

__

“Aramis would be interested to learn from you.” He said, the thought of his brother bringing a sudden pang, catching him unawares. He turned his head away.

__

“What troubles you?” she asked him.

__

“I have lost the use of my arm,” he said quietly. He found he couldn’t form any more words, couldn’t tell them how his life had changed in the blink of an eye.

__

In the end, he just said, “It was an accident; there are no recriminations.”

__

In response, Jeanne leant forward and gently touched his forearm.

__

“Mary has removed those stitches from your shoulder, and applied one of her poultices. How long since you were hurt?”

__

“Six days on my arrival here.” He replied.

__

“That will be eight then,” she said. “You have been two nights in this bed.”

__

He frowned, “Two nights?”

__

“Yes, lost in delirium.”

__

He shifted uncomfortably.

__

In the time he had been a Musketeer, he had been cared for by many people, even Catherine, who had smoothed balm onto his chafed wrists. But it was Aramis who cared for his soul. 

__

“I hope I didn’t embarrass myself,” he muttered.

__

“I only heard snatches,” she smiled,

__

“The boy heard more,” she said, indicating the boy standing shyly in the doorway, holding onto the doorframe.

__

“He has been there most of the time. He seems taken with you.”

__

Athos looked over at the boy. 

__

“I remember him,” he said, after a few moments, though he was taller than he remembered. “He took a musket ball in the shoulder from one of Renard’s men.”

__

“Seems you are kindred spirits,” she said, standing. “He favours his left arm as well.”

__

He fell silent then, lost for words, overwhelmed by so many emotions. It was Jeanne who broke the silence after studying him for several minutes.

__

“Are you hungry, My Lord?” 

__

“Please, I am not your Lord,” he said. “And glad of it.” 

__

He straightened, feeling some of the tension drop away.

__

Sighing, he finally answered, “I cannot remember when I last ate. I have no appetite.”

__

“Well, we will have to do something about that,” she added, taking a blanket from the bed and walking to the door.

__

To be continued ...

__


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Six weeks after Athos had left, Treville appeared on his balcony; searching out the men he wanted.

“You three ... Up here. Now!” he barked.

Treville looked serious, standing in front of his window, when they filed in and stood in front of his desk.

“News of Athos?” Aramis asked, hopefully. He missed his friend greatly.

“No.” He turned round and walked to his desk, picking up a letter delivered an hour ago. Frowning, he looked up at them.

“But I have information that might interest you, and it does affect Athos.”

“The word is Henri Renard has been released from prison, though there is no exact date here,” Treville continued.

“What?! “ cried Aramis, after a pause. “But he is not due to be released for another five years!”

Treville passed the letter to him, and sat down with a sigh.

They all remembered _Baron_ Renard very clearly. He had tried to seize Athos’s lands two years ago. His son had died as a result. The Baron’s brother, Henri, hadn’t been part of it, but he had thieved his way across Northern France and had needed to be brought to justice. Athos had insisted that he alone should track him down. It took him three weeks, but finally, Renard was taken and sentenced to eight years imprisonment.

“He did a deal, some of his “colleagues” will now be taking his place, apparently.”

“He should have blamed his own brother for his nephew’s death, but he blamed Athos. He swore he would kill him when he got out.” Treville continued, telling them what they already knew, before taking back the letter and throwing it on his desk.

“So we have to find Athos!” said d’Artagnan in alarm.

“And quickly,” Treville agreed.

“He could be anywhere,” said Porthos morosely.

“You need to go and speak to Renard’s jailers. Find out if they know anything about what he plans to do. But Renard must not know you are asking questions. At the moment, we have the element of surprise. Ride hard, Gentlemen.”

**oOo**

Once offered an incentive by Porthos, the jailer was quite informative.

“He’s a madman, that one,” he said, carefully counting the coins pressed into his hand.

“He’s going to some place, never shuts up about it. Been talking about settling a score for months. Apparently your man killed his nephew.”

“Why do you call him a madman,” Porthos asked slowly, tilting his head at the man.

“He’s planning on taking a whole village hostage,” the jailer replied.

“What village?” growled Porthos. “What’s that got to do with Athos? Think! It’s important!”

“Pinon,” said the man, after several minutes. “Wherever that is – wants to draw him out.”

He left them then, and hurried off, eager to be on his way.

**oOo**

“Pinon!” said d’Artagnan, when they were outside, readying their horses for the return journey.

“So we ‘ave to warn the villagers, and we ‘ave to find Athos.”

Aramis took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair in exasperation.

“Well, we have no idea where Athos is, my friends, so I suggest we ride to Pinon. They need to know another Renard is on the way, and this one sounds worse than the other one.”

At least we’ll ‘ave surprise on our side,” Porthos said, pulling himself into his saddle, eager to be off.

**oOo**

Jeanne strapped his arm high up against his shoulder, as he sat passively.

“I think,” she said, “if you keep your arm strapped like this, we can lower it a little every day until you are more comfortable.”

Once Athos had enough strength to walk, he ventured out into the sun. Wandering around the village, he realised that Bertrand, now Mayor, was apparently doing a good job of stabilising the village and ensuring they had what they needed.

He went to the stables to visit his horse, looking incongruous against the small hardy farm ponies, and met Albert, the village farrier. From the look of his own horse, the man was obviously conscientious. Behind the stable, there was a large chicken coop with enough chickens to provide an adequate number of eggs every day. Athos had noticed some of the villagers had their own chickens, and this larger coop seemed to be a communal one, providing for those who, for one reason or another, could not take care of their own. He knew, from talking to Jeanne, there were also a number of pigs further into the woods, looked after by the boy.

Four milking cows were lodged at the end of the large barn, along with five goats, and two oxen. He quietly approached the oxen and ran his hand over the broad shoulders of one of the one ton beasts standing passively inside the pen.

Jeanne came up quietly behind him.

“That one is called Porthos,” she said catching him mid stroke. He turned around and looked at her, eyebrow raised.

“And that heifer in the corner,” she continued, faltering under his steady gaze, “is Aramis.”

He turned again and looked at the young brown and white cow in the corner. Two large brown eyes looked back at him.

“And..,” she said, a little bolder now,

“That white kid over there,” she indicated the group of goats, “is...”

“d’Artagnan,” he finished, tilting his head at her.

He turned, surveying all three animals and before moving off, he said over his shoulder, “Seems appropriate.”

He did not ask what the other rather moody ox was called.

“We are sowing in two days time,” she called after him, indicating the oxen;

“Time to earn your keep, My Lord?” 

And so, two days later, he followed the men into the fields, the bag of rye seeds strapped diagonally across his chest. 

He watched as the yoked oxen were walked up and down the field, creating even furrows. Once one half of the field was prepared, the men moved forward to begin sowing the grain into the furrows. He had watched this before, as a small boy, but he had never participated. That was not his place and would never have been countenanced.

They worked from early morning to mid day following the ploughed furrows, throwing the seed into the newly turned earth. Once he was in the rhythm, he found he could manage quite well. The boy walked parallel to him, three rows away. At mid day, they sat in the shade beneath the trees eating the bread and cheese provided by the women. It was hot, hard work and once they had eaten and rested, they continued until they lost the light.

When they returned to the village, the air was cooler, but they were greeted with a huge fire at the edge of the main square, which had been set by the women throughout the day. All the villagers gathered there to celebrate the end of the sowing, well into the night; drinking ale and eating the stew made from their own home grown beans, peas, oats, onions and root vegetables.

They made good music, he thought idly, watching as they enjoyed themselves.

He was aware of a group of young women to his left. Jostled by her friends, one of them stood and walked over to him, holding out her hand. He looked up at her, almost shyly. Then he took that hand and stood. 

It was the first time Athos had danced in a long time.

“You have set young hearts fluttering,” Jeanne laughed later.

“I have no interest in romance,” he replied softly.

She knew the background to that response of course. They all did. They had helped dampen down the flames of the house after the Comte had gone.

That night though, he fell into his bed, alone; exhausted but content.

To be continued ...


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Athos thought about his brothers often. He missed them dearly, but felt no guilt at leaving, as he was useless to them now. He had done the honourable thing, the equivalent of putting a pistol to his head after catastrophic injuries. He knew they were no longer on an even footing. He was a liability, his skill diminished. 

In the village though, life continued.

After observing Jeanne and Mary kneading dough for their daily bread making, he was invited to sit with them. After about ten minutes, Mary broke off a piece of dough and passed it over to him. He found he could copy their movements with his good hand easily, and found it quite calming. After that he rose early and made his way into Mary’s cottage and spent contented mornings preparing the dough for baking. Unexpectedly, he felt that the women actually seemed to enjoy his presence, and he enjoyed theirs.

They sat in thrall at his tales, particularly of Court life, a world they could not imagine.

He described the Palace and gardens, the balls, and the lavish dinners he had witnessed. He even described the Queen’s dresses to eager young ears, and some older ones, who had become aware of his early morning presence. He realised he had never spoken so much, he hardly recognised himself. They were eager listeners, their lives were simple and it was hard for them to believe that just one day away, noble people lived such lives. They had experience of living under a Liege Lord but to have someone who could tell them firsthand about the King and Queen of France was a revelation. He realised that they were certainly aware of the Cardinal, who taxed them dearly. There was no fondness there, he found.

Athos realised their two worlds were not miles apart. The life of a soldier was hard, often living hand to mouth, travelling distances in all weathers, living on the land if needs be, suffering heat and cold, preparing meals from whatever could be caught. He had not, however had the luxury of peace like this for a long time. His garrison world had become quite narrow. Although it was a life he chose, and it suited him, how quickly he had become used to its restrictions.

Every morning, the boy would be there. He sensed him before he saw him. Once, before the others arrived, he broke off a piece of dough he was kneading and put it next to him on the table, as Mary had done with him. He continued kneading, not saying a word or looking up. After ten minutes, he patted the stool next to him. Minutes later, he felt the boy sit down next to him. Both continued kneading in silence, but for Athos, it was a major victory.

After that, the boy came every morning and sat on that stool.

Jeanne always made sure the boy had a bread roll straight from the oven.

The boy had never spoken. The villages did not know if he could. He had once lived with his father, but had become an orphan when his father had died of tetanus. He had stayed in the village, where he felt safe perhaps. The children sometimes teased him so he was happy to keep his own company. Athos knew how that felt and it was no hardship to allow the boy to stay close.

Then, it was Athos’s turn to observe the boy. The lad was fishing in the stream that ran through the wood behind the stables one sunny morning. Athos stood on the bank looking down at the boy, who had his back to him, quietly playing the line into the water. As he watched, the boy reached to his side and he patted the ground next to him, without turning round. Athos smiled, and moved down the bank to sit down next to him. The boy passed him a hook to tie to a line and they sat in silence happily, neither needing to speak.

That evening there was fish for supper.

Gradually, he realised he was not alert to every sound. He did not need to keep watch in case of some threat. He was able to sit in quiet reverie, lost in his own thoughts. Thoughts that were lightening every day. His nights were spent in quiet conversation and the luxury of an early bed.

His face and arms were brown with the sun. The careworn face was relaxed, lips more likely to smile, however lightly. His hair was longer, although he kept his beard its usual length, trimming it regularly. Another thing the boy liked to watch him doing. He did not know why the boy singled him out. Maybe the fascination had been born in him two years ago, when he watched him and his brothers fighting Renard. Even though he had been struck by the musket ball, he seemed to bear no ill will. One of his favourite things seemed to be standing in the shadows watching Athos go through his sword drills; seemingly fascinated with the blade arcing round, over, up and down, slicing effortlessly through the air, the sun catching its steel edge.

One day, Athos wandered into the smaller barn and found Bertrand sitting at a wood turning lathe. He was fascinated to see how he worked the pedal and moved the gouging chisel against the block of wood, clamped to a metal faceplate. The machine had settled into a rhythmic hum that was somewhat hypnotic. Very quickly a bowl took shape under Bertrand’s steady placement of the chisel. Bertrand nodded for Athos to sit,

“Keep me company,” he said.

“I never knew you did this,” said Athos, picking up one of the finished bowls.

“We make all our own tools and utensils,” Bertrand replied. “Everything you see here are old crafts, passed down through our parents.”

“I was passed different skills,” murmured Athos.

“We all must learn, M. Comte,” he said deferentially.

“I am not the Comte de la Fere, I am a simple soldier.”

“You are the finest swordsman in France I hear tell; and I have seen evidence of it,” said Bertrand, as he worked the lathe.

“And your point is..?”

“No point Monsieur Athos” he replied, knowing he had made it.

“Here,” said Bertrand suddenly, stopping the lathe, “You try.” 

Seeing Athos’s hesitation, he continued, “You only need one hand. Use the other to lay across your wrist to steady the chisel.” Bertrand’s enthusiasm was difficult to ignore.

So, Athos, former Comte de la Fere, made a wooden bowl.

“How did that feel?” Bertrand asked him.

“It felt good”.

**oOo**

She undid the bandages and straightened his arm. She had slowly lowered the arm over the last few weeks, bandaging it diagonally, then horizontally across his body, so that the muscle in his shoulder stretched a little further each day. The wound had completely healed now, only its effects remaining. One day, she fixed a loop to his belt, and he was able to slip his wrist through it and let his arm rest by his hip, supported.

**oOo**

For his part, Bertrand had watched quietly as Athos helped around the village, seeing how he favoured his weak side. One day, he called him into the barn. He had rigged up a pulley and rope system over the main beam across the end of the roof. As Athos watched, he tied a sack to one end of the rope.

“Turnips,” he said, in answer to the raised brow.

He passed the other end of the rope to Athos.

“Pull.”

Athos was curious, so he took the rope in his good hand and pulled. It took some effort, but the sack rose up a few feet off the ground.

“Again.”

After four or five pulls, Bertrand stepped forward and took Athos’s injured wrist out of the loop in his belt. At first, Athos resisted; but Bertrand stood his ground, and after a few moments, he put the hand against the rope and folded the fingers around it. He then took Athos’s other hand and wrapped the fingers around the injured hand.

“Hold it tight.”

They stood in silence, Athos looking down at the sack at his feet.

“Haul away,” said Bertrand.

It was hard, and a sweat broke out on his forehead as he grunted under the weight of the sack once more. He managed five lifts before Bertrand took the rope back.

“Tomorrow, six lifts,” he said quietly.

He left him out of breath, but as he watched Bertrand go, a small smile pulled at his lips.

Had he seen his face, he would have seen Bertrand smiling too.

To be continued ...


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

This was a poor village, but he saw how hard they all worked. They made ale, bread, grew their own food, and raised animals. They traded with nearby villages, shared their oxen for the Spring and Autumn sowing seasons. They looked after each other, cared for those who were too sick or too infirm to contribute. It was a simple, hard life; sometimes harsh. This was late September now. It had been a good summer and the crops had grown well. The stores were still plentiful from the Spring harvest. Under the boy’s care, the pigs were getting fat for slaughter having being let into the woods every day to scavenge on acorns. He wondered how they would fair in a harsh winter. But then, he considered, they had been their own masters now for two years, since Baron Renard had ridden in and destroyed what they had, wanting this land for his own son.

Bertrand was a good Mayor, Athos noted. He realised that despite his years of neglect, and all that had happened, he was now actually _proud_ of Pinon.

Athos continued with his now familiar routine; he rose early, prepared the dough for baking, and worked the lathe. Every day he went into the barn, taking the rope and pulling the sack, finding he could add a few more turnips now. He helped Albert care for the horses, and turned the cattle and goats into the fields. There was always water to draw from the stream, firewood to gather and fires to tend. He kept up his sword drills, albeit with one hand.

And throughout, he felt the boy’s eyes watching him.

Athos showed the boy the pulley. He quietly handed the end of the rope to him. He had removed half the turnips, but what remained was enough to help move the boy’s arm in a steady motion. At the least, it could do no harm.

**oOo**

They rode in on the back road, keeping within the line of trees; watching the villagers working in the familiar fields. After several minutes, d’Artagnan froze,

“Look! There” he whispered urgently,

There, sitting under a tree, next to a young boy, _was their brother._

They watched, delighted to see he looked well. Although he was not using his left arm, he seemed to be coping. They watched as he turned his face to the sun, something they had never seen him do before.

“All this time, and he was only a day’s ride away!” d’Artagnan said, incredulously.

Although they were keen to be reunited, Porthos suggested they should not go in straight away. They agreed that for now, they would stay in the woods and quietly observe; keeping the village under watch. They didn’t want a repeat of the pitched battle of two years ago. They believed Henri was alone, an assassin with a grudge, unlikely to coerce anyone to join him as he has little money. They could, therefore take some time before riding in and warning Athos and the villagers. Perhaps they could even intercept Renard themselves, and Athos will be none the wiser.

Agreed on their plan, they decamped to the nearby Inn, with two of them at a time going into the woods to keep watch on the village. They believed they had a few days grace before they took action. Athos would not thank them for not having a plan, or for causing unnecessary distress to the villagers. They wondered if he would thank them for even turning up like this.

For his part, the gradual loosening of his shoulder did not register. His forearm and hand were still numb. That was the thing he focussed on, which made him intensely sad. That, and the knawing feeling that he was being watched - and not by the boy, who was sitting beside him.

The following morning, he left the boy fishing and headed deeper into the woods. Drawing his sword he crept toward the figure humming quietly to himself under an oak tree.

Porthos whirled around at the sound of the branch cracking. Athos stood looking at him,

“Didn’t see that branch, dammit,” he said, lowering his sword.

Porthos relaxed and let out a low chuckle.

“You look well,” he said.

Athos smiled, and then came toward him. He took his hand and then let go and put his arm around the big man. Porthos noted he kept his left arm by his side. He was touched when Athos rested his head against Porthos’ shoulder briefly as he kept his arm around him, before he pulled away.

“I wondered when you would show yourself,” he said.

“What, you knew I was ‘ere?!”

“Of course,” said Athos in an amused tone.

“We need to talk Athos.”

There was a brief silence, Athos held his gaze.

“Alright,” he said, sheathing his sword,

“Come back to the village,” and then, “Are you hungry,” as an afterthought.

“Am I hungry?! I’m always hungry – remember?”

Athos clapped the big man on the back. A noise behind him made him turn, and there was Aramis, standing in the clearing, smiling. He raised his hat and bowed to Athos, his hand on his heart.

“Well, you were hard to find; we never expected you to be here. d’Artagnan has lost count of the number of hooves his horse has worn out looking for you.”

“Well, you’ve found me. Are we going to stand here and chat, or are you coming back to the village?”

Bertrand, Jeanne and the other villagers welcomed the Musketeers with genuine pleasure. Jeanne in particular was pleased to see both Porthos and Aramis, as these two brave soldiers had ridden out and rescued her from Baron Renard and returned her unharmed to her father. She kissed them both and bid them all sit at a table under a thatched canopy. After bringing them bread, cheese and apples, she left them on their own. 

“So he is coming for me,” said Athos quietly, when they were alone and out of earshot.

“It seems so.”

At that they tensed as they heard a rider approach on the main road into the village. Athos relaxed and gave a brief sigh, his chest tightening when he realised it was d’Artagnan. He was coming to relieve Porthos.

Athos was enveloped in an enthusiastic embrace as soon as he had leapt off his horse.

“I have no words for you,” Athos whispered.

“I know,” said his young brother; “Are we good?”

Athos nodded, feeling the tightness slowly releasing.

“It is good to see you,” said Athos.

He stepped back and looked at them.

“It is good to see you all.”

He could not tell him though that nothing had changed. He was still no good to them. 

To be continued ...


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

“We have been watching you for several days, my friend,” laughed Aramis, looking fondly at Athos.

“I don’t know whether to be angry or touched by your spying. However, I seem to have lost my capacity for anger these last few weeks. So I am touched,” he bowed gently.

Porthos frowned, “You can’t keep runnin’ away, you know. It always catches up with you. I tried for a long time to forget my roots, but the Court still pulls me back occasionally.”

Athos knew the Court he meant – the one in the centre of Paris, squalid and dirty, but home to Porthos for so many years. Athos understood Porthos’s wise words, perhaps for the first time.

“I am sorry I have caused you concern.”

“Don’t be. It is something you had to do, mon ami,” Aramis said gently.

“I didn’t set out to come here. Something drew me. And I had forgotten how good and honest these people are.”

Athos brushed off Aramis’s concerns about his shoulder. 

“Its fine,” he said, but Aramis could see how he still favoured his injured arm, and saw how it was hooked into his belt. He did not push him though; he could see that would get him nowhere. Although they did not fall into their usual familiarity, it did feel good to all be together again, so maybe that was enough for now.

“I like it here!” Aramis said, smiling broadly, as his cup of ale was refilled by a young blond woman.

“Aramis ...” said Athos reproachfully ; “Off limits.”

They all looked at each other and laughed.

“Nice bread,” said Porthos, after his third slice.

“Athos made it,” said Jeanne, coming to collect plates and carry them away. She had used his name for the first time, only confident because it was them.

Three sets of eyes turned on him, eyebrows raised. Porthos coughed and Aramis smiled. Athos tilted his head in admonition, daring Porthos to say any more.

After a pause, Athos looked at Porthos, “I must introduce you to the oxen,” he said.

“Should we tell the villagers he’s coming?” asked d’Artagnan, bringing them all back down to earth.

“They have a right to know,” answered Athos; “but not like last time. We can handle one man, can we not? We had expected him at some point, only not so soon.”

“He doesn’t know we know though,” growled Porthos.

They brought the villagers together, and explained why they were there. They were asked to act as normal as possible but to keep vigilant.

“It is not like before, he has come for me,” said Athos surveying the worried faces peering at him.

**Later**

“You made these?” said Porthos, looking at the stack of wooden bowls in the barn.

“It’s not that difficult,” Athos replied, running his fingers around the rim of a particularly nice walnut specimen. 

“I just added a few to their stock.”

“Impressive,” nodded Porthos thoughtfully, looking at the others, holding a bowl up for them to see;

“You did this with your fine noble hands?” he continued.

“Enough,” said Athos, taking it off him and putting it on the table.

**oOo**

“You have an admirer,” said d’Artagnan later as he sat with Athos, looking at the boy hovering by the barn, watching them.

“I have regaled him with stories of our adventures, I believe he wants to be a Musketeer,” Athos said, taking a drink of ale.

“Can a farm boy aspire to such heights?” d’Artagnan replied, raising his eyebrows mockingly.

“It may take a while,” Athos smiled.

“Does he not speak?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Only when he needs to, perhaps,” replied Athos.

As the evening wore on, they did begin to slip into an easy camaraderie. Although watchful for any imminent threat, the warmth of the fire after the sun had set; good food and ale lulled them into a sense of false security that led Porthos to suggest it would be good to have Athos back at the Garrison when Renard had been dealt with.

He realised his mistake almost immediately. Athos tensed and raised his hand, and for the first time in weeks, his forehead creased.

“Nothing has changed Porthos,” he said quietly, firmly.

“Come on, Athos ...” Porthos ventured.

“I am no use in this condition, Porthos!” he shouted, making the big man take a step back.

“You can’t think that, Athos!” said Aramis, throwing more wood on the fire.

In reply, Athos took a knife and in fury, he dragged it down the length of his forearm, as they watched in horror. He maintained eye contact with Aramis the whole time. When he had finished, he slammed the knife back on the table, his face impassive, no hint of pain or reaction to the line of blood that trickled down to his hand.

He stood up and walked out, ending all further discussion.

To be continued ...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here the story ends. Thanks to everyone who has read, commented and kudossed :-)

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Athos took refuge in the larger barn, sitting quietly in a corner. He was angry at himself for his overreaction. Porthos had such a big heart; he was only expressing his wish that they all be reunited. He had realised though, throughout his time here, this would all have to come to an end. He was unsure of what to do next. Seeing his friends today had reawakened so many memories.

Jeanne had said he had two hearts, beating in two separate worlds.

Lost in his thoughts, he failed to hear the door open, nor see the dark figure creep in. 

He did, however, hear a sword being unsheathed, and a low growl,

_“Comte de la Fere ...”_

Aware he had no weapon he whirled around, looking for something to use for protection. At that moment, d’Artagnan crashed through the door followed closely by Porthos and Aramis. Almost at the same time, the man grabbed the boy and dragged him into the centre of the barn. Athos gasped, he had not realised the boy was there. Of course, he should have known he would be, he thought bitterly.

d’Artagnan took a step forward, but Athos roared at him to stop.

In the deathly quiet that followed, his senses became alert. He became conscious of the animals at the end of the barn, hearing the anxious bleats of the goats. He looked steadily at his brothers and his silent plea to them was heeded. They remained where they were, albeit reluctantly.

Aramis unsheathed his sword and threw it to Athos, who caught it easily in his right hand.

“Let the boy go,” Athos said turning to Renard, “Your brother has already harmed him enough.”

“It’s you I want,” snarled Renard, throwing the boy aside. Porthos grabbed him and held him in a tight hold, to keep him from harm.

At that moment, Renard lunged at Athos with a vertical cut of his blade, aiming at Athos’s head. Athos easily parried with raised sword about his head.

Grunting, Renard attempted a horizontal cut, parallel to the ground, aimed at his left shoulder. Again, Athos moved his sword to the left side of his body, to block the strike.

They moved around, eyes locked on to each other. Renard attempted the exact opposite move now, aiming at Athos’s right shoulder. Athos had anticipated it, and swiftly brought his blade to the right, sliding Renard’s blade away.

Renard changed tactics and swung now toward the left leg of his opponent, and again Athos anticipated and blocked it.

The speed of the moves was taking their toll on both men. But Renard was unrelenting; he had waited too long for this. He intended to finish it.

Renard retaliated by aiming his sword at Athos’s right leg, the blade glancing down at an angle in a downward swing.

d’Artagnan took a step forward as Renard came near, but Athos shouted “Stay!” pointing at him and stopping him in his tracks.

Athos turned full circle and swung his sword down to his right side, parrying the attack away from his lower body.

Exhaustion and some desperation was setting in. Athos was acutely aware that he couldn’t compensate for his lack of balance. He reached down and unleashed his left hand.

Renard took that moment to lunge and thrust to the centre of Athos’s torso.

Athos made a tight downward swing in defence, knocking Renard’s blade to one side, so the blade slid past his body. Keeping his blade vertical, he swiped his sword to his left side, aiming to disarm Renard, but he had anticipated the move and delivered a blow to Athos’s right arm, drawing blood and leaving him gasping, with only his injured arm now to defend himself.

Athos lunged toward Renard and shoved his shoulder into him, pushing him off balance and giving himself vital moments to recover.

Again, he had to yell at d’Artangnan to stay, and the young man moved back, just as Bertrand and Jeanne burst into the barn.

Bending over, Athos was attempting to pull air into his lungs. 

Making a decision, he slowly switched the blade to his left hand, hoping he could feel its weight.

The boy was struggling in Porthos’s grip, seeing that Renard was on his feet now, moving swiftly behind Athos.

Just then ...

_“ATHOS!”_

The first sound the boy uttered was a warning to his friend!

Athos was jarred into action;

He swung around, feeling the sword in his hand, and raised it above his head in one swift movement to block the blow Renard was aiming at his head.

Their blades clashed. Athos smoothly turned full circle and lunged forward, running the blade through Renard, who grabbed the blade in his bare hands, but Athos only thrust the blade deeper. He withdrew it quickly and Renard slumped dead at his feet.

Athos slowly looked from the prone figure to his hand, holding the sword. He raised his arm, looking at it in disbelief. He looked at his grinning brothers, Bertrand and Jeanne, and then turned his attention to the boy...

The boy was looking at Athos’s arm, dripping blood and then at his injured arm, now holding his sword firmly. He laughed.

Athos had never heard him make a sound. He walked quickly over to him and pulled him into an embrace.

“Thank you, mon ami.” He whispered. “You saved my life.”

Aramis broke the moment, stepping over the dead man to reach his brother. He ripped the sleeve of the damaged arm to reveal the damage. After a few moments, he looked up.

“Not too bad, looks worse than it is,” he announced in relief.

Later, as Aramis was stitching the cut, Athos flexed the fingers of his left hand.

“I did not know it would heal,” he whispered, incredulously.

Aramis finished and clapped his brother on his shoulder.

“Well, mon frere, you have been doing physical exercises since you came here. You have repaired muscle and strengthened tendons and it seems that the nerves are recovering. You have also eaten well, breathed good fresh air, and I doubt you have had access to copious amounts of wine, my friend! Perfect healing conditions!”

“Then it can only get better?” said Athos quietly.

“Yes, I believe so,” Aramis laughed.

Later, he realised that most of the village had seen the fight, alerted by the sound of clashing blades, a rare occurrence now at Pinon. While two of the men unceremoniously took care of Renard’s body, everyone returned to the fire. More ale was brought and they all sat into the night. 

“You slipped easily back into your Musketeer world, My Lord,” she said, after it was over. She was smiling though. 

“Two hearts beating in two separate worlds,” she repeated quietly, refilling his cup.

Athos sat lost in thought. His friends’ loyalty, the villagers kindness, and the admiration of a young boy who had only spoken one word, deeply touched him.

**oOo**

As they were saddling their horses, Porthos looked over towards Bertrand and Jeanne before turning to Aramis.

“Do you think they planned all this?” he whispered.

“What?” 

“Making bowls, baking bread, sowing ... turnips?”

“I believe those two set out to show him what else he could do; they made him use that arm. And he, too lost in their kindness, unspoken, not judging, nor suffocating, just showing him a simple life, was unaware. They pointed out the obvious, obvious to all of them, but not to him. God works in mysterious ways, my friend.”

“Sneaky.” 

**oOo**

Eleven weeks after he left the Garrison, Athos made his goodbyes to the villagers. Mounting his horse, he took his place next to his brothers, and looked down at Jeanne and her father. The boy stood shyly back.

“The last time I came here, you all thanked me,” he said. “Now it is my turn to thank you.”

“This is a good place,” said Jeanne. “I hope you see that now.”

“I do.” He said quietly. “I will not forget your kindness.”

He leaned down and handed the boy a letter of introduction, addressed to Captain Treville at the Musketeer Garrison.

“Keep this safe. In two years time, present yourself, fit and healthy, with this letter, to the Musketeer Garrison. If you want it,” he said.

The boy took a breath, his eyes shining. He took the letter and held it to his chest. Then he nodded, and smiled. That was enough for Athos.

“I am ready,” he said to his brothers, looking more relaxed that they had seen him for a long time. 

“Body and soul?” asked Aramis, tenderly.

“Yes,” he said. “It almost feels as if I have been on a successful mission.”

“You know what we always do when we come home from a successful mission!” cried Porthos.

“The tavern?”

They all smiled.

“I suppose you will require me to buy the first round? I warn you though, I have drunk little over the past few weeks, so I cannot guarantee my usual capacity to hold my wine.”

“There’s a bet there somewhere,” Porthos beamed.

They turned their horses and headed back to another world.

**End**

_______________________________________________________________________________

**A/N**

I have checked on the location of this particular stab wound and its treatment. Full recovery can be achieved after six months. Also what grains were used for sowing and crop rotation. Bread making and wood turning have been around for many many years prior to the 17th century. I hope I have covered everything! 

Thanks for reading!


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